


Parramatta Road

by threewalls



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Australia, Canada, Comfort, Community: kinkfest, Cross-cultural, Depression, English Football, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, One of My Favorites, Pizza, Sharing a House, Timtams, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-05
Updated: 2008-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Sheila had introduced them, six months back, at the house-warming party after he and Noah had moved in.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Parramatta Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> With thanks to lynndyre for encouragement and beta.
> 
> Prompt: Final Fantasy XII - Vossler/Basch - depression/friendship - "I'm comin' 'round to open the blinds; You can't hide here any longer"

Noah is calling out his name, but Basch can't see him. The grain's too high, stretching up every which way. He's running after the voice, glancing between rows. Noah keeps calling. Basch can't see the road, or the house. Nothing but straw gold. He can't find Noah. He runs and runs, until he trips, and falls.

 

Basch hit his head on the bottom of the coffee table, rattling his breakfast dishes. He was still wearing the T-shirt and boxers he'd worn under his uniform for Noah's Sunday shift at the law library, the clothes he'd slept in the night before. On the television, the credits of the "7:30 Report" was scrolling, telling him that the semi-darkness outside was dusk not dawn, and, anyway, he could almost remember watching daytime cooking shows. The inside of his mouth was dry but tasted sweet, and his back hurt from the soft, sunken contours of the couch. At least it had been long enough to stretch out on.

"Basch? Basch! I can see light up there! You're making me look like an idiot here, Basch!"

The voice was familiar, though for the moment all Basch could think was that it wasn't Noah's voice. Noah would be somewhere up the coast, maybe even Byron Bay by now. Basch had forgotten how long he had said it would take them to get there, just that he wouldn't be back until the Sunday before classes started again. That was weeks away.

On the coffee table, Basch's phone rang, and that wasn't Noah, either, just some unknown number. The screen showed two missed calls, so Basch declined the wrong number so that he could check the call register. They'd both been tonight, both the same number. He'd missed three text messages, but the phone rang again while he was trying to check them.

Basch answered.

It was Vossler. He said he was outside; Basch tuned out the rest as he levered himself upright using the table. He went to the little window-balcony that fronted the living room and looked down onto the street. Vossler waved with the hand that wasn't holding his phone against the side of his face.

"What are you doing here?" Basch asked.

"Pub quiz at the Landsdowne. You didn't show."

The Landsdowne was their local pub, or one of them, backing onto their road where it met Broadway. Quiz night was a house tradition in a house of people who didn't tend to socialise together. Foris had started bringing his friend Richard halfway through semester, and some time after that, Vossler had started turning up. Maybe Sheila had told him about it. Vossler was good at sports questions, the way Foris was good at geography and Richard knew surprisingly much about early Modern Europe for someone aiming to work on public policy in Canberra. Occasionally, they'd even won a round on the house. But with Sheila and Noah on their road-trip, and Foris helping Richard house-sit while his friend's mother was away, Basch hadn't expected anything over the break.

"But-- that's on Tuesday."

"It is Tuesday." Basch could hear Vossler's exasperation over the line. "What day do you think it-- Come down and let me in, Basch."

Basch hung up. He would have left Vossler outside, but he had started yelling again.

Vossler looked him up and down through the screen door while Basch fumbled with the keys. The night air was cold, and Basch remembered that he had meant to shower when he came home from work. When both doors were open, Vossler stood on the steps watching him. Basch saw that the street-light across the road had blown.

"Did you catch something?"

"No, I... I just got up," Basch said. "...Late. You sure it's Tuesday?"

Vossler rolled his eyes, and shouldered past Basch into the narrow front hallway. Basch stepped back against the wall to let him pass, and shut and then re-locked both doors. Vossler grabbed Basch by the arm, and started walking him back up the stairs. They stopped by the door of the bathroom Basch and Noah shared.

"You stink, and here's a shower," Vossler said, pushing the door open. "Tell me I don't have to show you what to do."

Basch was naked and turning on the water when the door rattled; Vossler shouted through to ask where the dishwasher was. Basch shouted back that they didn't have one. A few minutes later, shampoo slid into Basch's eyes when Vossler shouted through something about shaving Basch himself if he didn't remember to do that as well.

 

Sheila had introduced them, six months back, at the house-warming party after Basch and Noah had moved in. Sheila, Noah, and Foris were taking law combined with something else, though in different years of their degrees, and that skewed the guest list. Most people seemed to drift away when they learnt that Basch couldn't sympathise about torts. The longest conversation Basch had had so far that night was with a Peter Bergan, apparently one of Foris' friends. Built like a linebacker, Peter had been happy to tell Basch that he played rugby for the university side, that he was corporately sponsored by the firm with which he had an internship lined up for next year. But Peter had gone in the house for more beer, and Basch had stayed outside turning sausages on the barbeque (and swatting flies). Since then, his conversations had been about the weather, or someone asking for more food. Even though the barbeque was set up under a tree, Basch had watched almost all the sausages (and vegetable patties) disappear with relief, shutting off the gas and wiping the sweat from his forehead for what he hoped was the last time.

Sheila came out carrying another drink for Basch, followed by a guy with a scowl, dark hair and dark skin-- not dark like Foris, but the sort that looked like he'd still be darker than Basch, even without the tan. Hanging down out of his open shirt-collar, he wore a gold chain hung with an inch-long crucifix.

"This is Vossler," Sheila said. "He's not a lawyer."

Basch could tell; Vossler didn't stick his hand out to shake the way everyone else had.

"Very funny. We've already met, Drace; remember?"

"No, that was his brother-- they're twins? This is Basch. He's not a lawyer, either."

Vossler had watched Sheila stride back into the house, and frowned at the few cold, shrivelled sausages that were left on a plate under the netting with some wilted salad. He had some of the cream-fruit-meringue thing, instead, glaring at the paper plate as he tried to balance it on the neck of his beer bottle to eat.

They swapped degrees: Vossler was halfway through an Economics degree, majoring in Management, Basch would be starting his second year of Vet Science. But Vossler didn't seem enthusiastic about his major and while Basch knew a few jokes about horse tranquillisers, he didn't think that they were as funny as Noah did. Vossler looked like he'd lived in a city all his life.

"How do you know Sheila?"

"We work together," Vossler said. "Is vet science at Sydney that world-renowned, or did you just follow your brother here?"

Basch was thinking of how to answer, glad for the first time that night that Noah wasn't right beside him to answer first, when dry thunder cracked across the night. They both looked up, and in an instant, the skies opened. Then they were rushing plates, bowls, cake boxes inside, the rain drenching them, thundering on the corrugated iron roof of the outside toilet.

"We came for the weather, eh?" Basch said. Vossler's face looked entirely different when he grinned.

Vossler had been late to arrive, and he was one of the last to leave. They were gathering up empty bottles, dirty glasses and plates from the living room when a car pulled up outside. Sheila had called up the stairs that it was Vossler's taxi. From the window-balcony, Basch had watched Sheila walk Vossler out to the curb. They'd both been laughing, though Basch hadn't caught who had told the joke. Sheila hugged Vossler briefly, before helping him into the car.

 

That was the one thing Basch had never understood about Vossler coming to quiz night. The time it took Richard to walk home to Darlinghurst was apparently about the same as Vossler's train home from Central, but Vossler took twice as long if you counted in getting to the station and waiting for a train late at night. Vossler complained about the trains, how long it took to get one that actually went through his station. Noah would hint that Vossler was welcome to leave early if he wanted, or Richard would offer to catch the bus down to Central at nine instead of eleven (he usually came back with Foris after the quiz). But Vossler always stayed to the end and usually left by himself. Sometimes, Sheila asked Basch to walk with Vossler down to the bus stop, and he did.

Vossler was leaning against the wall across from the bathroom door when Basch came out of the shower. He was holding Basch's mobile phone, and the face was lit up. Basch carried his dirty clothes in one hand, and used the other to keep the towel wrapped around his waist from falling off. Vossler looked Basch over.

"What do you take on pizza?" he asked. "What? You have other plans tonight?"

"Pepperoni, mushroom, peppers. Extra cheese. What do you--?"

"Like chilli peppers? It's not that kind of pizza place."

"No, I mean-- capsicum. Can I have my phone back?"

"You were missing some numbers," Vossler said. "Or, do you only ever call your brother?"

The display read: "Z., Richard." Basch cycled through the numbers to check that Noah's was still there.

"York?"

Vossler made a face. "Parents. My sister's middle name is Coventry."

Basch shut his bedroom door to Vossler speaking Italian into his own mobile phone. Basch and Noah did not have middle names, and they no longer had parents.

 

As they walked, Vossler turned his head every few steps to make sure Basch was still following behind him. The clear, cool night and rush of air with every car passing along the highway helped Basch feel more awake.

The best pizza in Sydney, according to Vossler, didn't deliver. Maybe half an hour's walk from the house, it was also only few blocks further down Parramatta Road from the vet school, blocks of stores that sold sandwiches, or different types of hardware, or-- antiques. There were a lot of antique stores, and Basch couldn't tell which were closing down or simply shut for the evening. By the last set of lights, there was a motorcycle store/bookshop/café that distracted Basch, the concept of it.

"You've really never been down here?"

Basch shrugged. He never bought his lunch. He and Noah had tended to eat out in the city, usually near the law school, though, lately, Noah had started working late more and more and telling Basch not to wait for him. There were law school things, that wouldn't interest Basch.

Basch and Vossler stopped at the bottle shop attached to a pub across the road. It was still open, long after dark. His second year in the country, and Basch still hadn't gotten used to how much easier it was to buy alcohol. Basch just shrugged when Vossler stood him in front of the red wine shelves. They left with a bottle of something Vossler called Cab Sav.

They knew Vossler at the pizza place, calling out to him in rapid-fire Italian as soon as he crossed the threshold. Vossler told Basch to pick a table while he got his wallet out. There was one other pair of college students, a girl and a boy, maybe on a date, and a family with three children younger than seven. Basch sat away from the kids; they had wine, after all.

It was a homey sort of restaurant, a Tuscan townscape mural on the back wall, terracotta roof-tiles, grey-green leaves and a lurid blue sky. On the other walls, framed photographs of soccer teams mixed with paintings of fishermen and wine bottles knotted over with string. There was a pair of black bull horns attached to the oven's chimney. Apart from the Asian waiter who set plates and cutlery on the scored wooden table, the staff had that certain matching look about them that suggested that they were family.

Vossler sat down with the pizza. Two pizzas, one all dressed, just the way Basch had asked for it, the other covered in bacon, ham, pepperoni and slices of thin, dark sausage. It wasn't like the pizza he had grown up with, the same sort he could get from the Domino's down in Glebe, thick spongy crust and thin slivers of meat. These ones were flat, thin, and half-melted with cheese. Basch understood why they were given cutlery, but it tasted all right. More pepper in the pepperoni than Domino's. Vossler poured Basch a glass of wine, one for himself, and they ate.

 

"...pink! All completely pink. After we got all the sheets out, of course, there they were: Foris' missing bike shorts!"

Basch tried to take a drink to calm his laughter, but his wineglass was empty. So was the bottle. It wasn't that funny, but Vossler was laughing with him. Basch felt almost too warm, the wall solid behind his back.

"You're different without your brother around," Vossler said. "Do you think they'll last the whole three weeks up in Byron? No offence, but he's not Drace's usual type at all."

Basch had been avoiding talk of Noah or Sheila, to be kind. "You and Sheila aren't--?"

"Separate bedrooms up there, she says, but she lets both of you call her Sheila." Vossler shook his head, before swallowing the last of his wine. "We're just friends. We've both had bad luck with women--, men--, you know, with people." Vossler looked down at the table, followed one of the old, dark scratches in the wood with his fingernail for a moment before looking up. "I haven't got a girlfriend right now."

Basch nodded; neither did he, or Foris, or Richard. It was hard to meet women at college outside of classes.

Vossler leant forward to take a piece from Basch's pizza, his knees jostling Basch's under the table. Basch apologised, felt his ears go red and felt like a Canadian cliché.

 

Basch filled the kettle under the tap and set it on the stove. He felt awkward taking the jar of instant coffee out of the cupboard. They could have had espressos at the pizza place, and gelato, Vossler had offered to pay, but Basch had felt funny, or fuzzy, and he'd wanted to go home. Behind him, Vossler was half inside the fridge, swearing at things that used to be vegetables and making space for the pizza box. Everything of the two large pizzas they couldn't eat, Vossler had taken to go.

"At least your milk's not off. You wanna Timtam?" Vossler held out the packet, two dark chocolate biscuits rolled out the end.

"Those are Sheila's."

Vossler looked at the biscuits, and then quickly finished chewing to talk. "We buy more tomorrow?"

They ended up on the couch watching television, Timtams on the coffee table. Vossler found the soccer on SBS. It wasn't a sport Basch knew much about. It wasn't hockey. It wasn't baseball, or basketball, or lacrosse. It wasn't football as he knew it, the sort that involved as much padding as hockey and even more lucrative college scholarships down south.

You couldn't have got more south than this. New Zealand, maybe, but at that, Noah had threatened to stay in Winnipeg. Noah's choice had been Toronto, but they still had most of the money from selling the farm when Dad had died, the sympathy points from Mom's death in Year 13 to make allowances for their GPAs. They could have gone anywhere, and for Basch, Toronto hadn't seemed far enough away.

On the screen, the players were running down the pitch; the whistle blew-- Vossler swore, throwing his arms up-- and everyone on the field stopped running, rearranged themselves. The player in bright blue who had the ball, kick-rolled it behind him to a man in red, and play went on.

Vossler told Basch about a weekly soccer game in the playing fields near his house, his brother's friends and some guys he'd gone to high school with. Some were away for the winter break, so Basch could come along if he wanted. Basch said he didn't know the rules; Vossler said he could teach him.

"It's five a side, no ref. The guys on one side take their shirts off, the others don't. Kick with your feet. Tackle with your feet. Don't touch the ball with your hands unless you're the goalie. You'd probably make a good goalie."

Basch nodded, and found his head slipping along the soft, worn leather of the couch. The milky coffee had made him feel tired again, uncoordinated, and his eyes were heavy. He must have knocked Vossler's arm down from the back of the couch, because he could feel the weight of it on his shoulder, along his own arm.

The red men and the blue men were still running along, passing the ball back and forth as they advanced. Basch tried to see if he could figure out the rules. It was a bit like football, except for all the ways it wasn't. You could see the players' legs. Maybe soccer was more like hockey, since you had a goalie. That would be good. Basch was better at hockey. Vossler swore again when one of the red men shot the ball towards the net, but he didn't move very much this time.

"Who are we rooting for?"

Basch's voice was muffled by the smooth weave of Vossler's shirt. It was easier to hear Vossler's breathing than the subdued calls of the game.

"Not AC Milan."

 

Basch woke up to something beeping far away, once, twice. He wasn't in bed, but on the couch and in his clothes. Someone had taken his shoes off. The green digital clock on the VCR read about five-thirty. There was dull grey light outside. He heard someone on the stair that creaked, tried to lift his head, and felt suddenly so tired.

Basch smelt Vossler's pizza before he could see him. Vossler was just wearing his boxer shorts. They were violet with thick white vertical stripes covered in orange criss-crosses. Basch thought Vossler had very hairy legs for someone with no hair on his chest at all.

"Hey. You're awake."

Vossler set his plate down on the table, and crouched down next to Basch's face.

"Where did you sleep?" Basch asked.

"Your bedroom's the smaller one up here, right? Shove up."

Basch pushed up with one hand, and Vossler slid into the space where Basch's head had been. Vossler reached for the remote, flicking through the test pattern on SBS, then something with people ballroom-dancing to pop songs. It seemed vaguely familiar. Vossler set the television to mute and dropped the remote back on the table.

"You need pay TV."

Vossler moved his pizza to the arm-rest, took a few bites and then put down his slice. He looked at Basch, patted his thigh.

Basch settled his head into Vossler's lap, trying to get comfortable, and Vossler's lap shifted under him. It smelt of beer, pizza and... stale, musky sweat. It should have been nauseating, but it wasn't. Vossler put a hand on Basch's head, fuzzing over his hair.

"You doing something tomorrow? Need a wake-up?"

"Tomorrow, um, Wednesday or--"

"Wednesday."

"No. I have work on Friday. Noah got this job at the law library, so that he could afford to go travelling with Sheila, Drace. They wouldn't let him have all three weeks off, but--"

Vossler snorted. "Your brother's a shithead."

Noah wasn't, but it was nice to hear it. Vossler's hand on his head, stroking as Basch drifted back to sleep, was nicer still.


End file.
